


The Role You Made Me Play

by cnroth



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M, Post-Endgame, justice for Seven, look what you made me do, respect for C7, yep I joined the dark side
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26917567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cnroth/pseuds/cnroth
Summary: Starfleet changed whileVoyagerwas in the Delta Quadrant, and not for the better. Seven is tired of being trapped under their thumb.
Relationships: Chakotay/Seven of Nine, background Paris/Torres
Comments: 11
Kudos: 14





	The Role You Made Me Play

**Author's Note:**

> “There is no more despised people in the galaxy than the xBs. People either see us as property to be exploited or as a hazard to be warehoused.” 
> 
> —Hugh, ST: Picard “The End is the Beginning”

1850 hours.

Seven drags her eyes away from the chronometer for the hundredth time, forcing her focus once again on the open file on the screen in front of her. Species 489, Entis. Humanoid. Planet of Origin: Sibassa. Location: Delta Quadrant. Notable Accomplishments: … 

Her metal-tipped fingers drum the desk. Chakotay will be here soon. 

1851 hours.

 _Voyager_ has been back in the Alpha Quadrant for three months now and she hasn’t been allowed to see him once. Every day, Seven has requested an update on his situation from their former commanding officer, the newly-promoted Admiral Janeway.

Before this morning, Janeway’s response was always the same.

“I’m doing everything I can to ensure they are pardoned and released. Don’t worry. I’m sure the officials will see reason. These things take time. Just focus on your work.” At this point, the admiral would usually give Seven a pitying smile. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

Then, of course, Janeway usually had to end the transmission due to an interview, a photo shoot or, occasionally, actual work. She, more than anyone else from _Voyager_ , was the center of media attention—just as Starfleet wanted her to be.

She never strayed from her talking points.

Even Lieutenant Kim had begun to doubt her claims. The last time he talked to Seven, he colorfully referred to the trial proceedings as “bullshit” and expressed his frustration with the Federation for keeping families apart unnecessarily. This, of course, was specifically in reference to B’Elanna Torres, whose husband and infant daughter were also prevented from seeing their loved one.

Surely, now that the former-Maquis on _Voyager_ have been officially pardoned of their crimes against the Federation, B’Elanna is with her family once again. That, at least, is something good Seven can hold onto.

1853 hours.

She frowns at her console. Despite all of her knowledge and experience in stellar cartography, Starfleet assigned her the task of expanding their species database with the information she possesses from the collective. It is tedious work, and Seven sees little benefit in it for the Federation, but she supposes it is better than remaining idle. Besides, Starfleet didn’t give her options. 

Busywork. This is yet another part of their political game.

For all of Janeway’s talk about the freedom of being an individual, she was quick to make excuses when Federation officials decided that Seven did not deserve the same rights as her crew mates to choose her own life’s course. 

“It’s only a matter of time before we cross paths with the Borg again,” Janeway said after the decision was made to put Seven under the purview of Starfleet. “Allowing our scientists and engineers to study your implants will help us prepare, and your knowledge will advance the entire Federation decades, if not centuries, ahead of its time.” 

At this, Seven had lifted her implant-covered brow. “You make it sound as if I have a choice in this matter.”

Janeway frowned. “Of course you have a choice. We all have a choice to follow orders or refuse them, but part of our responsibility as individuals is to protect each other. You’re doing the right thing by cooperating with Starfleet, and I’ll make sure they don’t forget that.”

“If I wish to resign my current position and relocate to another planet, will I be allowed to leave?”

At this, Janeway squirmed, a hint of regret showing on her face. “My hands are just as tied as yours are, Seven,” she admitted, her voice hardening. “I suggest you make the best of it.”

Janeway never revealed Starfleet’s reasoning for treating Seven the way they have done. It isn’t necessary. Seven has known the truth ever since she was taken into custody. The Federation sees her as a security risk, and many of them blame her for all that the Borg have cost them. Even Admiral Janeway can’t change that.

They will never let Seven out of their sight. 

1855 hours.

Deactivating her console, Seven moves to the window beside her small dining table. Twenty stories below, walkways crisscross over patches of green grass, pedestrians in Starfleet uniforms going from one place to another. They appear quite small from her vantage point, yet she envies them in a way that brings physical discomfort.

Although Janeway was often overbearing on _Voyager,_ Seven was able to earn enough of the captain’s trust to complete her work with relatively little oversight. Her input was often requested, if not always accepted. 

That is no longer the case.

Unlike Seven, those individuals on the paths below do not live in a repurposed office space in the middle of Starfleet headquarters. Perhaps they have private homes elsewhere, or they reside in apartment-style quarters on an entirely different part of the base. All of them have kitchens and beds. Most of them have families or a roommate, or perhaps they cohabit with a domesticated animal to provide companionship.

None of them are imprisoned by Borg implants that make them reliant on an alcove to survive. They do not have devices and security officers tracking their every move. They are not alone.

Not like she is.

She flattens a hand over her stomach, willing it to calm down. Her jacket wrinkles beneath her touch, and she smooths it out. This uniform is, admittedly, more comfortable than the dermaplastic garments she’d been accustomed to wearing on _Voyager_ , but the inefficient design is frustrating. Starfleet has been quite clear that she needs to look and act as human as possible so people won’t fear her. This has yet to make much of a difference in how she is treated.

It is just another form of assimilation.

Not even Icheb can understand her current situation. He had already decided to attend Starfleet Academy prior to _Voyager’s_ return, and Starfleet is eager to have a brilliant, young, moldable asset like him on their side. He doesn’t need to be given other options—not that they would be offered if he asked. Becoming a Starfleet officer is his primary desire, and he is pleased to be an object of their attention. He will gladly sacrifice his individual freedoms for the Federation without question, because he believes in their ideals.

Seven, however, is not so sure.

1857 hours.

She begins to pace across the small space she calls home. It is sparsely decorated. Beside her couch sits a potted plant gifted to her by The Doctor. Draped over the cushions is a red throw blanket knit by Admiral Janeway. At the center of her coffee table is an ornate music box from Lieutenant Kim. Above the replicator hangs a drawing by Naomi Wildman. 

Aside from these items, everything in her space is functional. A couch, coffee table, dining table, desk and computer console, replicator, refresher, alcove, stand-alone closet, and lavatory. The smallest quarters on _Voyager_ were larger than this space. The laboratories where Starfleet personnel study her are significantly larger than this.

It seems an important indicator of where the Federation’s priorities lie.

The door chimes, making Seven stop in place.

“Come,” she says, forcing herself into something resembling a relaxed posture. He is early.

When Chakotay steps across the threshold, a confusing yet euphoric mix of emotions overwhelms her. Her lips part, but she struggles to speak. Her chest is tight and it is difficult to breathe.

“Seven,” Chakotay gasps out, rushing across the room and wrapping her in an overly-tight embrace. 

She circles her arms around his waist. He’s warm and solid against her, and in this moment she is viscerally aware of how much she has missed him.

Chakotay’s lips find hers, his hands supporting her head as he tips it back to deepen the kiss. His tongue slides past her teeth and she is overcome with a base, human desire to prolong this gesture for as long as she can.

Too soon he is pulling away, but he tucks several escaped hairs behind her ear and proceeds to kiss her neck. “I missed you so much,” he murmurs.

The confession brings a smile to her face, and his kisses make her skin tingle. She angles her head to the side, encouraging his current course of action. “I have missed you, as well.”

Suddenly, his lips are pressed close to her ear. “Is the place bugged?”

The sudden shift in tone is disappointing. Why is he concerned about being listened to? “No,” she says. “We can speak freely.”

He nods, then rests his forehead against hers. “We have a plan.” 

This small piece of information is less than helpful. “Explain.”

“They’ve got you under such a close watch that I couldn’t risk sending word to you sooner, but B’Elanna and I have been talking—and a lot of our old Maquis crew agree—that we want to get out of Federation space. Start over. She and Tom are getting everything lined up now.” Chakotay’s hands slide down her arms, his fingers intertwining with hers. “I want you to come.”

Her stomach tightens. “Starfleet will not allow me to leave.”

“Fuck Starfleet,” he spits, his dark eyes locking onto her blue ones. “They have no right to hold onto any of us. We’re not their prisoners, and you’re not a science experiment.” He strokes her cheek, expression softening. “You deserve to be free, to make your own choices, to be respected for _who you are_ instead of what you can do for the Federation. That’s what Kathryn promised when we disconnected you from the hive mind, and if she won’t keep that promise, I will.”

Seven wants to go with him. This room, those laboratories, and this planet are not where she wants to spend the remainder of her life. There’s only one problem.

“I require an alcove.”

Strangely, Chakotay responds with a conspiratorial smile. He reaches into his pocket and extracts a small, circular, silver-colored device. “This should do the job.”

She takes it from his open hand and examines it.

“Harry built it, though B’Elanna did covertly send him a few ideas. It goes...” Slipping the device from her grasp, he again brushes back a few loose hairs and holds it to her forehead, over the place where her cortical node is hidden. “...here. Just tap the button in the middle, and it’ll attach and begin a cycle.”

His touch sends shivers through her. “I had—“ Her breath catches when he presses the device into her palm and closes her hand around it. “I considered the possibility of designing a mobile regeneration unit, however my request for access to the necessary information and equipment was denied on the grounds that I had more pressing concerns. The head of my security team claimed she would have engineers look into the issue.”

Chakotay snorts derisively and shakes his head. “Starfleet changed a lot while we were gone.” His fingers stroke her cheek. “Which is exactly why we’re leaving. But I won’t go without you.”

If the object in her hand works, she will have only one reason left to stay—Icheb. There is little she can do for him from captivity, but if she becomes a fugitive she may never see him again. The thought makes her chest ache. If only there was something she could do to loosen the grip Starfleet has on them both.

If she is to accomplish that, she will need to come from a place of strength, and that requires resources she will never be able to access here. She will find a way back to him someday. That is a promise.

For now, however, the opportunity Chakotay offers is her best chance.

She nods. “I will accompany you.”

His exhale is heavy, as if he has been holding it in for a prolonged period of time. “Thank you,” he whispers, and his lips meet hers once again.

* * *

Two weeks later, Seven invites Chakotay, Tom, and B’Elanna over for dinner. That is the official reason for their visit, which Seven had to clear with her supervisor and security detail. However, there is another motive.

Tonight they will attempt to escape from the Federation.

“How’s the mobile regenerator working for you, Seven?” B’Elanna asks, returning to her seat after helping Chakotay clear their dishes from the table.

“Very well,” Seven replies, “thank you. I believe that I have, as Lieutenant Kim says, ‘ironed out the kinks.’”

Tom chuckles, then sighs. “I really wish he’d come.”

B’Elanna puts a hand on his arm. “He’s more valuable to us inside Starfleet, and it’s where he wants to be.”

Tom’s hand covers hers. “I know, I just...”

“I’ll miss him, too,” B’Elanna says.

“Alright,” Chakotay says, retaking his chair beside Seven, “not to break up a moment, but Mike just confirmed he’s in position. We need to get going. Tom?”

Pressing a kiss to B’Elanna’s forehead, Tom retrieves a small transport enhancer from his pocket and beams a medical case to the center of the table. Inside is a two-pronged, handheld device that Tom is not supposed to have.

How he managed to procure such an item is a mystery.

On Seven’s left, B’Elanna takes a microfilament from a pocket inside her vest. “I need to disconnect the tracker from your cortical implant.”

Seven nods. “You may proceed.”

The process of being poked and prodded, her implant tampered with by a person who is much too close in proximity for her comfort, brings up memories of the invasive studies she has endured over the past three and a half months. It is highly unpleasant. B’Elanna is efficient, though, and the work is soon complete.

“Done,” B’Elanna says, tucking the microfiliment back into her vest.

Tom nods at Seven. “Hold out your arm.”

Seven pushes back the long sleeve of her shirt and rests her arm on the table, the inside facing up.

Slowly, Tom runs the device over her arm until it beeps to notify him that it is in the proper position. He enters a command into the instrument’s interface, and three seconds later an implant the size of her thumbnail materializes in its prongs. 

A biotracking device. 

When Tom returns the instrument and biotracker to the case, Seven feels a strong sense of relief. Finally, she is free of this tether to yet another collective she never asked to join.

Tom shuts the case. “I’ll recycle this.”

“No,” Seven says. She wants Starfleet to see their mistake, to look directly at the hypocrisy of what they’ve done. 

More than that.

She wants everyone to know what they’ve done.

Carrying the case to her desk, Seven retrieves the tricorder she keeps hidden underneath. She scans the biotracker, uploads the specs to her computer console, and adds them to a large file labeled, “Project Ex-Borg.”

Starfleet is right. She _is_ a security risk—but not in the way they think. If they had treated her fairly, things would be different.

Perhaps now, because of what she is about to do, things _will_ be different. If so, Icheb might experience the same freedoms his fellow cadets already enjoy. Any consequences Seven endures will be worthwhile if her actions benefit him.

Her son.

Chakotay approaches from behind, and his arms coil around her waist. “What’s this?”

“A whistle,” she says. “I intend to blow it.”

She feels him smile against her cheek. “Good.”

Encrypting the file, she transmits it to the journalist Lieutenant Kim put her in contact with several days ago. After it is sent, she deletes the recipient’s comm frequency from the log and erases the console’s entire memory. As satisfying as it would be to show her captors exactly what she’s done, it would only give them clues they could use to prevent the story’s release. If that happened, Seven would have accomplished nothing beyond her own escape. 

She intends to do much more than that.

Leaving behind her biotracker, however, will satisfy the very human, spiteful desire within her to make Starfleet nervous. It is a statement of condemnation to those who have kept her captive and quiet. In particular, it is a message to one person who attempted to force Seven into a mold that she could never fit. Someone who, in the end, was unwilling to sacrifice allegiance to Starfleet in order to help Seven escape.

Her eyes track up to the couch where a red knit throw blanket is still neatly draped over the top. The admiral’s hands may be tied, but Seven’s are not.

Not anymore.

“Are we ready?” B’Elanna asks.

Stepping out of Chakotay’s arms, Seven retrieves a small duffel bag from beneath her desk. Inside are a few changes of clothes and undergarments, a sonic toothbrush, her mobile regenerator, the music box Lieutenant Kim gifted her, and Naomi Wildman’s drawing. 

Admiral Janeway’s blanket stays behind.

“Yes,” Seven says, looping the strap over her shoulder. She takes Chakotay’s hand, and together they cross back to where Tom and B’Elanna now stand.

“Mike,” Chakotay says into a small communications device, “four to beam up.”


End file.
